


Better Again

by whateverrrrwhatever



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Future Fic, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Monster of the Week, Past Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Pining, Post-Canon, Sappy, mates if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: “Maybe some kind of lizard bird thing,” Scott says, shoving a handful of fries in his mouth. “Or like an evolved kanima? Or something? I think it would be more—”“Scott,” Stiles interrupts. He wants to stop himself, but he just can’t. The train has left the station and there’s no turning back. “Is Derek into guys?”Scott shakes his head. “Oh, no. I am not having this conversation with you, dude. If you want to know, you talk to him.”-Stiles doesn't. As it turns out, he’s kind of stupid when it comes to Derek.





	Better Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [dottie_wan_kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi) for being an amazing beta and writing buddy! I honestly probably would never have finished this without your encouragement.
> 
> I've made a couple of edits for consistency and clarity since I posted this, but nothing material! Hope you enjoy.

The whole state is on fire when Stiles comes home in October. He has to wait to move into his apartment for two weeks because the air quality is so bad — who wants to carry boxes up three flights of stairs while hacking up a lung and aspirating the incinerated contents of three small towns and an entire state park? Not him.

“Dude, how many boxes of books do you have? I thought you got a Kindle,” Scott says, but he’s carrying three boxes stacked on top of each other and barely breaking a sweat.

“Shut up, Scotty. Less talking, more moving,” Stiles manages. The air’s been better for the past couple days, but it’s still hot as balls and moving sucks no matter what.

Before he came back, he’d planned on maybe staying at his dad’s for a while, to get used to being in Beacon Hills again. The more he thought about it, though, the better an apartment sounded. It looks like he’s staying for at least a year. He’d like to get laid once in a while, if he can swing it, and he’s pretty sure his dad would, too.

It didn’t take him long to find an apartment downtown. The place is small, but comfortable — as it turns out, a one bedroom in Beacon Hills is more than affordable after six years of renting in the DC metro area. He’s right above a coffee shop and across from the bookstore — although, he thinks, watching Scott lug the boxes over to the built-ins on the far wall of the living room, maybe that’s not really a feature.

“Anything else?” Scott asks, depositing the boxes.

“I think we got it all,” Stiles says. “For now, at least. There’s always more shit.”

“Awesome,” Scott says, dropping down Stiles’s single armchair, still wrapped in plastic. “Pizza now?”

“Pizza now,” Stiles agrees.

“What are you up to tomorrow? Wanna come over and help me unpack the PlayStation? I’ve got Little Big Planet and there’s an extra controller somewhere in one of these boxes.”

“I’d love to, dude, but I have to head out to the Preserve. Derek says something killed a mountain lion and he’s found a couple of coyotes dead over the past week. We’re not really sure what it is, but I doubt it’s anything good,” Scott shrugs. “Hey, you wanna come with? We could use your help, especially since you’ve gone pro.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Guess I should keep my fieldwork sharp while I’m on remote research assistant duty. I mean, I’ve already been back a week. I’m surprised it took this long for something weird to happen.”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “Welcome back to Beacon Hills. Meet by the pond at 10?”

“Sounds good. I’ll bring a bestiary just in case.” 

Scott gives him a weird look.

“Dude,” Stiles sighs. “Oh my god, how do you _still_ not know what that means?”

After Scott leaves, Stiles surveys the apartment. The place is still pretty empty — it’s just him and boxes (of his things, full, and of pizza, empty) and a cheery beribboned money tree that Melissa sent over. He didn’t bring a lot of stuff back from the East Coast. It’s mostly clothes, some older books — the ones he hasn’t digitized, for reasons; Stiles is the paperless type, but he still has more physical books than he’d realized — and a framed poster from a Smithsonian exhibit on superheroes that Lydia got him for his birthday one year. Most of the things in their apartment had been hers, for the brief time they’d lived together, and when he’d moved out on his own he hadn’t bothered to replace them. It certainly made for an easy move back home.

At least the delay moving in means the router’s already set up and ready to go. Stiles isn’t sure he could survive Beacon Hills without the internet, figuratively and literally. He flings himself on the couch and cracks open his laptop.

\--

Stiles is the first one to arrive at the Preserve the next morning. It’s all good, he thinks, pulling into the empty parking lot by the lake. He’s got his phone and a giant cup of coffee to keep him company. Plus, the lake’s always beautiful first thing in the morning, the sun just peeking over the hills and reflecting off the water, the woods shadowed, still harboring the chill from the night before.

He’s perched on the hood of the Jeep, scrolling through r/AskReddit and racing to finish his coffee before it gets cold when Derek Hale steps out of the woods at the edge of the parking lot.

Stiles waves and sends up a small prayer of thanks that despite the onward march of time and fashion, Derek hasn’t abandoned the leather jacket, or the henley, or the tight jeans. Some things should never fucking change, he thinks. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Scott’s janky old dirt bike coming up the trail. The motor on that thing was loud as hell when he got it, and it hasn’t gotten any quieter in the past ten years. Scott pulls up next to Stiles and kills the motor, tugging his helmet over his head.

“Hey,” Scott says. He gestures toward Derek, still making his way to the parking lot. “Derek’s gonna show us where he found the animals.”

“Thanks, Scotty. I kinda figured that one out on my own.” Stiles downs the last, barely warm swallow of coffee. “Hey, Derek.”

Derek nods, and heads towards the woods.

“Welcoming as ever, I see,” Stiles grins, and follows.

They’re out there for well over two hours before they find anything unusual. In a clearing halfway up the side of the hill, they find shards of shale from the nearby mountainside, flung out in an almost-spiral the size of tennis court, chopped up like the chambers in a nautilus shell. It’s crude and unsettling — intentional but inhuman and unlike anything Stiles has ever seen before. He has no clue what made this.

“Is that—” Scott looks stricken. “Is that a werewolf looking for revenge?”

Derek shoots him an impatient glance from where he’s crouched at the edge of the formation. “No, Scott. That’s a plain spiral, and you don’t usually have to go looking for them. They come to you.” He stands, brushing the dirt off of his hands. “Besides, does this smell like a werewolf to you?”

Scott pauses and grimaces. “No. I don’t know what that is, but it smells awful.”

“Do you think you can track it by scent?” Stiles asks. Derek nods.

“This way,” he says, and heads further up the hill towards the scree. Stiles shrugs at Scott and starts after him.

After a while, it’s pretty clear to Stiles that they won’t find anything other than the weird rocks, at least for today. Scott and Derek have been following a very faint scent trail in circles for the last hour: it appears and disappears in odd places, in the middle of clearings and at the top of a ravine, nothing down below. When they start bickering over which direction to try next, absent evidence of anything out of place other than the strange pattern in the rocks, Stiles starts to let his mind wander.

The Preserve hasn’t changed much since he left, but it’s still strange, being back. Maybe he should be scared, given everything that’s happened here. But he’s been out in the world and seen worse (barely; Beacon Hills during his high school years was close to worst-case scenario, he’s learned) since then, and it’s kind of weirdly nice, tramping around in the woods with Scott and Derek. Like old times. He’s in much better shape, though — he has to be for work — and finds the hike into the foothills almost pleasant, even though Scott and Derek are moving at their usual breakneck werewolf pace.

Scott breaks away in a huff to jog to the next rise, leaving him alone with Derek, who’s walking a little ahead, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. Derek’s hair is grown out a little and he’s stopped shaving again since the last time Stiles saw him. It works for him — but to be honest, he’s yet to see a look that doesn’t work on Derek Hale. Even the shirt with the damn thumbholes he wore for way longer than it was remotely fashionable or acceptable. That shirt was ridiculous.

He’s changed more than that, though, Stiles notices. He doesn’t scowl as much, and he moves more easily that he did when they were younger. He’s looking for — well, whatever it is they’re looking for, but he’s not looking over his shoulder. Earlier, a rabbit had startled when they came over the crest of a ridge and took off, crashing through fallen leaves and underbrush, and Derek hadn’t even flinched. He hasn’t been under attack in a while and it shows. It looks good on him. Peaceful, Stiles thinks, as Derek turns back and gives him a small smile.

Something happened to Derek after they’d all graduated high school and gone their separate ways — maybe it was the time away from Beacon Hills, or finally dating someone who wasn’t going to kill him. Maybe it was getting further away from all the catastrophic and brutal loss endured here: the fire, Laura, Peter, Erica, Boyd, nearly Cora. Nearly all of them, in their turn.

Experience taught Stiles early that there are many wounds time will never heal, but that distance can grant you the grace to relearn: what normal feels like; how to be happy, sometimes.

\--

They end up at a quiet neighborhood bar on the way back into town. It’s a little run down, but cozy, and has a handful of interesting local beers on tap.

“I’ll get the first round,” Derek says when they walk in and takes off for the bar. Stiles hadn’t expected him to come with when Scott suggested catching up over beers, but as Stiles pulled into the parking lot, there was Derek, stepping out of a black Camaro.

“I can’t stay too long,” Stiles tells Scott as they settle in to a table at the back. “I’ve got to make sure I get some work done tonight. One of the cases is heating up and they need some help figuring out their next move.”

“You know, dude, you never told me what it is that you actually do. You told me you’re working on cases, but for what, some kind of contractor or something?” 

“Yeah, I’m basically a supernatural criminal profiler,” Stiles explains. “We ID creatures - animals, basically - that show up and cause problems, but we also advise on cases with supernatural people, like werewolves, who have their own cultures, quirks, and potential motives. I came to the team with a kind of unique combination of specialized research skills and hands-on experience.” He cracks a grin. “It’s a niche.” 

“That’s awesome, bro. Do they stick you with all the werewolf cases?” Scott asks.

“Nah, only some of them. I’m more of a generalist,” Stiles says. “There’s a lot I don’t know. Sometimes I’ll even call Derek if I’m stuck. He’s been pretty helpful.”

”Whoa, really?”

“Well, he’s the only guy I know with any kind of inside info on werewolf politics. Except maybe Peter,” Stiles grimaces. “So the only reliable guy I know with any kind of info on werewolf politics. The old packs are pretty secretive.”

“Yeah, that’s what Derek says,” Scott says. “He’s been reaching out to some of the packs that the Hales used to be connected with, to see if they’d be willing to work with us.” Scott shakes his head. “Some of that stuff is so weird. I don’t get it. Like, at all.”

“Yeah — thanks, man,” Stiles says. Derek’s back from the bar, handing out the first round. “It can get pretty complicated.”

“Thanks, man. Cheers,” Scott says, raising his glass. “We were just talking about Stiles’s job and how he has to deal with pack politics.”

“You’re good at it.” Derek says, and it's so far from expected that Stiles nearly chokes on his beer. “You’re good at reading people. You can understand their motivation and what they’re going to do next in a way that other people can’t.”

“I guess,” Stiles shrugs, a little uncomfortable. He’s always been pretty good at seeing trouble a mile away: Peter, Theo, and Matt come to mind, at a minimum. Derek… well, he’d been wrong about Derek, but that was years ago, and look at them now. “I’ve also got a good team and lots of fun toys. Came in pretty handy with that case back in February.”

“Yeah, I remember that one. How did it go?” Derek asks, and Stiles launches into the story of his team’s month-long attempt to apprehend the firstborn son of the Butterfield pack alpha in upstate New York, finally cornering him at a truck stop west of Canastota and stunning him with an improvised explosive specially rigged to stun the supernatural. It’s a good one, even though it’d been hell to live through, working eighteen hour days in the dead of winter outside of Buffalo, the target just slipping through their grasp at every turn. Derek had been there for him, though — answering his texts in the middle of the night, typing up his memories and sending helpful documents, picking up his phone whenever Stiles called. They didn’t handle werewolf cases too often, but when they did, Derek was always there to help him.

To be honest, Stiles felt a little weird when he and Derek would be working on something together, calling and texting and emailing, while he was with Lydia. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really, but it felt wrong to enjoy it so much, to picture Derek on the other end of the line, sitting in the loft in soft pants and a tee-shirt, laughing quietly at some stupid story about his team. It felt bad when he got off the phone after a frustrating argument with Derek over regional werewolf traditions — sure, Derek’s a wolf, but he knows fuck-all about pack ceremonies in the Delta and needs to stop talking like he does — and his first instinct to calm down was to whip it out, jack himself off and come all over his bedsheets, still low-key pissed about both the argument and the fact that he had to do laundry, although that last part wasn’t exactly Derek’s fault.

Stiles shakes off the thought. This really isn’t the time, which is never, or place, which is nowhere. “Well, after that, I need a drink. Anyone else need a drink?”

“I’m good for now,” Scott says, picking up his phone. “I gotta step out and call Molly back, anyway. It might be a minute.”

“Sure, dude. Derek?” Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Derek stands. “I’m in.”

They end up next to each other at the bar -- somehow, while they were waiting to order the next round, a group of college-age kids rolled in and sniped their table. The place is starting to fill up even though it’s a weeknight, and the seats at the bar are all full.

“Guess Scott’s on his own,” Stiles says, reaching for his beer. He and Derek are nearly elbow to elbow, that’s how crowded together the bar stools are. 

At some point, the bartender dimmed the lights and turned up the music, sending the vibe straight from neighborhood bar to trendy nightclub. Stiles kind of hates it.

“Guess so.” Derek grins like Stiles said something funny, even though he’s pretty sure that was just a lame observation.

“Yeah,” Stiles clears his throat. “So, uh. Thanks again for all your help on that case. I don’t think we could’ve caught him without you.”

Derek ducks his head a little and Stiles can’t tell for certain in the low light, but he’s pretty sure Derek’s blushing a little. It’s slightly devastating. “I barely did anything. You were on the right track. You would have caught him eventually.”

“Yeah, like three months and eight states later,” Stiles scoffs. “They never would’ve talked to us on our own. You’re pretty good at the diplomacy shit.”

Derek shakes his head and reaches for his drink. “You know what they say: ‘Try again. Fail again. Better again.’ The rest of the passage is a little bleaker than that, but. The point is, you and I both know I learned it the hard way.”

“You read a lot,” Stiles blurts out, and whoa, maybe he needs to slow his roll a little. “I mean, when I used to come by, you always had a book out, even back then. And you… You know a lot of Shakespeare.”

“I actually have a degree in literature,” Derek says, looking down at his hands, picking at the label on his bottle. Stiles has to move a little closer to hear him; someone’s turned the music up way too loud. “Well, in literature and Spanish.”

Stiles’s jaw drops. “Whoa, really? I had no idea, dude. But that kind of explains a lot.”

“Yeah,” Derek glances up at Stiles through his lashes. They’re — he’s got long eyelashes for a guy, that’s for sure. Derek laughs a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone in the pack about that before.”

“That’s awesome.” Stiles isn’t lying. Derek Hale, a man of unplumbed depths, even after ten years of knowing each other.

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs, and if Stiles didn’t know better he’d say he was bashful, of all things. “It was a lot of reading and getting out of my own head, which I kind of needed. I really liked English class when I was a kid and it made sense to just keep going once we were in New York. I got really interested in Borges. It was something to do.”

“I’m pretty sure double majoring in literature and a foreign language isn’t just something to do. Typically it’s a major life accomplishment.” Stiles shakes his head. “I bet you got honors, too.”

“Yeah,” he admits, smirking, a little smug. “I did.” 

Stiles has to look away, lean back a little. Derek has a fucking grogeous mouth and Stiles is pretty sure his thirst is visible to every single person in the vicinity. He has got to tone it down. The thing is, it’s really not hard for him to appreciate washboard abs, gorgeous eyes, a surprisingly in-depth knowledge of English literature, and the ability to recover from major, life-wrecking trauma over and over and still keep doing your best to be a good man. But anything more than appreciation is just straight up impractical — Derek isn’t into guys. Stiles is pretty sure he’d know, after years of living in close proximity. Though, clearly, he doesn’t know everything.

Back then, Stiles had been a teenager and really only had eyes for Lydia, despite the long winter of his soul while he waited for her to get her shit together and figure out that they were meant for each other. And once they were together - well, he was only going to get that lucky once.

Stiles’s phone buzzes on the bartop. He picks it up, quickly reading the message. “It’s Scott. He bailed to go hang with Molly. Typical.” Stiles shakes his head. “That dude is wrapped around her finger.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “Hey, you and Lydia.” Derek leans closer to Stiles, rocking forward to rest his elbows on the bar. He clears his throat, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek is nervous. “Scott said you—“

“Yeah, we broke up. It was mutual. She loves me, I love her, we both agreed we’re better off in love with other people.” Stiles knocks back the rest of his beer. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Okay.” Derek leaves it at that, but he doesn’t look away. The silence drags on just a moment too long and Stiles catches himself staring at Derek’s mouth, twisted in a wry half-smile, way too close and way too tempting. He sighs quietly and waves for the bartender. It’s going to be a long fucking night, at this rate.

\--

Stiles had thought he knew Lydia better than anyone — and he might have, really, after years of crushes and pining, watching, living in the same town, fighting side by side. But there were things he still didn’t understand, he came to learn. When he was younger, he’d always been convinced that he could see the real Lydia: sharp, brilliant, introverted. He imagined her in glasses and old sweats, hair pulled back, studying, quiet and graceful, bent over the books spread out on her bed. She would be frowning as she penciled out a problem or marked something in the margins of her textbook, decisive and calm.

It wasn’t until they both had broken free of Beacon Hills that he’d recognized otherwise: Lydia was just as she appeared, intelligent and demanding and difficult. It was what he loved about her. He just wasn’t prepared for her stubbornness, her expectations, her unwavering focus to be turned on him. They were supposed to be clever and argumentative and demanding of other people, not each other.

He’d thrown it in her face once when they were fighting and he was losing, impatient from the start and not as smart or as experienced as she was. His hands were tugging at his hair in frustration as he fidgeted and paced while she just stood there, angry and perfect. “Lydia, could you just — just this once, could you let it go? Why do you have to be like this?”

“This is the way I’ve always been,” she said, and just looked at him. “You’ve known me since preschool. Did you expect something different?”

And for some reason, he had.

He’d thought he had her pinned, had her understood so well, but he’d been wrong, a hopeful idiot. An optimist, even. It wasn’t like him. And now he’s gone and done it again, because if you’d asked him at any point in the past ten years if Derek Hale, whose life he’d saved, who he’d stayed up with on multiple all-night stakeouts, who he’d witnessed recover from being a complete and total fucked up mess to a functional and healthy human being, or close enough to — if you had asked him if Derek Hale was even a little bit gay, he’d have said no.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes. “Derek, fuck—“ 

Derek hums in agreement and Stiles has to weave splayed fingers into Derek’s hair, cupping the curve of his skull as he sucks Stiles’s dick. He’s tonguing just under the head, arcing tension through Stiles’s hips and spine, and pressing his shoulders further into the sharp edges of his paneled front door.

Derek pulls off just long enough to smirk up at him before diving back in, wrapping his fingers firmly around Stiles and following with his mouth.

Stiles’s moan is embarrassingly loud in his empty apartment, and he takes a moment to realize he really isn’t clear on how they ended up here. He’s only had a few beers and he’s not close to drunk, but he can’t imagine a string of events that leads to Derek Hale crowding him up against his own front door, sliding down to his knees and sucking Stiles’s dick down like it’s all he’s wanted to do since they sidled up to the bar.

This is so far beyond anything he’s imagined — except it’s kind of really not, if he’s honest. Because he has definitely, absolutely, 100% thought about having sex with Derek — but idly, not in a serious, hoping-it-would happen type of way. Really, who would have ever fucking thought that somewhere between the third round of drinks and their fourth hour of easy conversation, Derek would have gone quiet, serious, grabbed Stiles’s arm and suggested they go home since the bar was getting crowded. It was hard to talk about — anything, Derek had said, eyebrows raised meaningfully, with all these people around.

Stiles had agreed, saying, “Yeah man, you’re probably right,” and nearly brained some blond frat boy with his elbow tumbling down from the bar stool. Derek had been kind of weird, intense, walking out to the car, but when wasn’t he weird and intense? It’s better than it had been, but Derek is definitely still the same at his core, and that core is weird and intense.

The drive had been quiet, radio on low, which Stiles had thought was a little strange, since Derek had wanted to talk, but whatever. It hadn’t been until Derek’s familiar intense stare had gotten closer and darker and then Derek’s mouth was on his and Derek’s tongue was in his mouth that he’d clocked something was different.

Which, he reminds himself, catching his breath, is what’s happening right now, live, right in front of him: Derek Hale, werewolf, forever in tight jeans and leather jacket, angry eyebrows and gorgeous eyes and honestly kind of weird ears, bad plans, try-hard, tragic backstory, growing up and on, who’s looking at him kind of funny, wide-eyed and quiet. His lips are swollen, pink and lush, slightly parted.

“What,” Stiles barely manages, a little desperate. He realizes he’s been staring. “Are you okay? Did I—“

“No,” Derek says quickly, glancing down and away and fuck, his eyelashes are so long. “No, you’re—I just, can I—”

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts, nodding so hard his eyes feel like they’re going to fly out of his head. “Yes, you’re — anything you want. Holy shit,” he chokes out, because Derek’s mouth is already back on him, hot and so, so wet.

Stiles almost feels like he’s watching this happen to someone else, but everything’s so real: Derek’s soft hair between his fingers, slightly sticky with product, his shoulder firm in the grip of Stiles’s right hand, their panting breath and the fucking amazing sound of Derek’s mouth on him loud in the dark of his apartment. Derek is strong enough to hold him down, pin his hips against the door with one hand. he’s broad and strong and smells like dude and leather, and he gives head like he loves it, and Stiles is so into it he thinks he might pass out.

“Derek, fuck.” He’s so close to coming, every part of him so tense it almost hurts, and Derek just keeps going, rubs his thumbs over Stiles’s hipbones and that’s it, game over, Stiles can’t stop it anymore. “Derek, Derek—”

Stiles comes so hard he can barely breathe, a debilitating rush of pleasure that arches his back and curls his toes, leaves his vision blurred. He blinks as he slides down the door, panting, to where Derek’s already fumbling with his own fly.

They jack Derek off together, Stiles dazed, ignoring the cramp in his calf. Derek grunts and throws his head back when they get going, and Stiles can’t look away from the flush warming his face and spreading over his bared throat.

“Come on,” Stiles urges. There’s a light sheen of sweat on Derek’s forehead, his jaw working and eyes half-closed, meeting Stiles’s gaze and sliding down his naked chest to watch his dick thrusting in their hands, the head slick and flushed bright red where it moves through their grip with every stroke. It looks — it looks fucking good, the two of them together like this, and Derek’s slowly losing control, hips stuttering, the muscles in his thighs tensing and releasing as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” Derek manages. “Stiles. I want to — I’m gonna, can I, on you—”

Stiles doesn’t understand at first, then his breath catches in his throat because holy shit, _Derek_ . “Fuck, yes. Yes please, please do that,” and he can’t help it, it comes out too quickly and a little too loud.

Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care. He grunts, hands moving faster and hips surging forward, slides onto Stiles’s lap and presses the head of his cock against Stiles’s belly and comes, dick jerking in his hand. It’s just like porn, Stiles thinks, except hotter because it’s actually happening to him. It’s Derek and his uncut — of course he’s fucking uncut — dick jerking against him, straddling his thighs, balls brushing his lower belly, forehead resting against his shoulder and his against Derek’s as they both watch his come run down Stiles’s chest.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes, and they both look up. Derek’s still catching his breath, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. It strikes him then that Derek’s fucking beautiful like this. His eyes are bright even in the dim half-light, almost golden, and his lips are soft and swollen. It’s surreal that Stiles is the one who did this, who put that look on Derek’s face, who tangled his hair and bruised his lips.

“Well,” Stiles says, grappling for some sort of control over himself, over the situation. He’s sitting on the floor of his new apartment, covered in Derek Hale’s come and this close to leaning in to kiss him again. He needs to get a fucking grip. “I didn’t exactly expect to hook up tonight, but that was a pleasant surprise.” He tries his best at a casual grin but judging from Derek’s reaction, or lack thereof, he’s failing.

“I’d better go.” Derek says abruptly, groping for his jeans and moving to stand. He doesn’t look at Stiles. “Could you...?” He gestures behind Stiles, and he realizes he’s still slumped back against the door.

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Stiles says, and moves. Derek nods and steps past him and then he’s gone — door closed behind him, and Stiles sits on the floor in a daze. What the fuck just happened? He’s really not sure what to think. Or what to feel, other than how he already does: totally come dumb, fucked out and relaxed and a little sleepy. 

None of what just happened makes any kind of sense, but he’s not really in any shape to worry about it right now. 

Stiles sits in silence for a minute, then stands and goes to clean himself up, washes away Derek’s sweat on his hands, the smell of his come. He turns on Netflix and gets on Reddit to look up giant lizards, again, and decides to ignore it until it goes away, even though the apartment still smells like the both of them. He gets up to open a window and restarts the sixth episode of Firefly from the middle, right where he left off. He falls asleep on the couch sometime after midnight, laptop on his chest, tabs open for every lizard bird the internet had to offer.

\--

It doesn’t go away, though. He keeps thinking about it — over cereal the next morning, getting dressed, driving out to the woods to meet Scott. Stiles thinks about it in the middle of ordering lunch and loses his train of thought between his burger order and asking for a strawberry milkshake, and Scott looks at him funny while the waitress collects their menus.

He doesn’t understand how he couldn’t have known, is the thing. How had he never, not even once, noticed Derek checking out a guy? It’s not like they hung out all the time, like they rolled up to the Jungle on Friday nights for Long Islands and Lady Gaga remixes or anything, but Stiles had known about Jennifer and Braeden, even when he and Derek weren’t very close. For a long time, he’s truthfully had a pretty complete picture of Derek’s honestly horrific romantic history — a rich tapestry of tragedy and poor judgement, with the possible exception of Braeden. They’d gone their separate ways a few months after Mexico, the way Derek told it, without incident or acrimony. At least, as far as Stiles knows.

Nevertheless: no men. Or, no men that Stiles ever saw or heard about. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed, though. And even if he hadn’t, he thinks, if Derek had — had picked some guy up for one night, maybe, while he was on the run, and they’d.... Or, more likely, if he had met someone while Stiles was away, which is more typical of Derek: not one night with a stranger, but immediately all-in, stupidly romantic, doomed love matches at first sight.

If he had met someone, if he’d met a guy, and they’d gone home together... If they’d kissed like Derek and Stiles had, if Derek had blown this other guy up against his own front door, if they’d moved to the bed, after, to — then why hadn’t Derek ever said anything? That’s the kind of thing friends, _bros_, do: tell you when they’ve been fucking somebody, even if you’ve been gone a while and aren’t really up to date. Friends tell you that they’re into dudes. That it’s no big deal, because it really isn’t. And Derek should know that.

It just... bothers him. He’d thought he knew Derek pretty well, that they were friends, finally, but evidently not. And now he can’t stop thinking about what else he doesn’t know. Derek’s never been an open book, but after ten years of life-or-death situations and long nights spent researching and making plans, pack dinners and full moon runs and weird werewolf ceremonies with antlers and anointing, you get to know a person. Stiles can’t stop himself from combing through their decade of interactions, trying to remember long-forgotten details, looking for clues. 

He’s pretty sure Derek knows Stiles is bi, or pan, or whatever — fluid, he’s always thought was a good descriptor for himself. In short, a total slut for hot people of any gender or none. Did Derek somehow not know? Did he think Stiles would maybe judge him, or freak out, or otherwise react like a horrible human being upon learning that Derek Hale wasn’t 100% totally straight and might like dick, at least a little bit?

“Maybe some kind of lizard bird thing,” Scott says, shoving a handful of fries in his mouth. “Or like an evolved kanima? Or something? I think it would be more—”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts. He wants to stop himself, but he just can’t. The train has left the station and there’s no turning back. “Is Derek into guys?”

Scott shakes his head. “Oh, no. I am not having this conversation with you, dude. If you want to know, you talk to him.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. “Scott, come on. You’re my best buddy. You’ve gotta tell me.”

“Yes, I am,” Scott says. “And no, I don’t.”

“Come onnnn,” Stiles whines. Desperate times call for desperate measures. “You can tell me, Scotty. It’s fine if he likes dudes — I am all about liking dudes. And it’s fine if he doesn’t, too! I am also all about the ladies. Either way, fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Dude. Stiles.” Scott fixes Stiles with a look. “Don’t be weird about this.”

“I’m not! How could I possibly be weird about it? Imagine. Me, weird because somebody’s into dudes. Who am I to judge? I like dick as much as the next guy.” Stiles pauses. “Wait, no, I take that back. I’m pretty sure I like dick a lot more than most guys.”

“This isn’t mine to tell.” Scott says, standing. “If you wanna know, ask him. I gotta go.”

“Scott—”

“Nope. Not getting involved.” Scott drops a twenty on the formica counter top and heads out the door. 

“Some friend you are,” Stiles says, glaring at his back as he heads out of the diner into the bright midday light. He stirs the dregs of his milkshake with his gnarled, chewed straw. It just bothers him, not knowing things. Bothers him thinking there’s whole dimensions of people he’s known forever, people he cares about, that are a mystery to him. It bothers him to think that even after being friends for nearly ten years — an exaggeration, he’ll admit: they really started off as hostile acquaintances, but, whatever, bygones — and after all they’ve been through together, how close they’ve become, that in all that time, Derek hasn’t trusted him enough to tell Stiles something so important about himself.

What also bothers him about the whole thing: he can’t stop thinking about the sex. It’s unnerving. Before Derek, Stiles hasn’t been with anyone since New York, and the other night had been… intense. Derek’s broad hands gripping his hips, thumbs barely brushing over the crests of his hipbones as he mouthed at Stile’s dick through his briefs, hot and damp. The sharp bite on his thigh, now bloomed into a mottled purple and green mark, right before Derek took him into his mouth. Derek’s hair, grown a little long, twined in his fingers; Derek’s grip wrapping around his hip and digging into his ass, shoving him back against the door, the fingers of his other hand digging in to Stiles’s leg. 

Everything felt monumental and amazing, like there was nothing Derek could have done in that moment that wouldn’t have just turned Stiles on more, escalated the feeling further, like a perfect culmination of… something. The whole experience had been mind blowing, overwhelming. He’s not sure he can go back to normal, now. That’s not the point, though. The point is: holy fuck.

The point is: Stiles really fucking wants to do it again.

\--

He doesn’t know what to say to Derek so he doesn’t say anything until he absolutely has to. He skips the mid-October pack meeting and tells Malia he’s too sick to meet up for breakfast with everyone after the full moon. It’s interfering with his social life just a little, but for now self-imposed solitude beats the alternative. He’s got plenty of work to keep him busy until this all blows over.

The last weekend in October, though, Beacon County Animal Control shows up at the vet clinic bright and early with a mutilated coyote corpse to autopsy, found by an unlucky Saturday morning jogger.

Scott’s text wakes Stiles up and he rolls over in bed, groaning. _Found another coyote u n Derek shld check woods again._

_New phone. who dis._ Stiles sends back, peering through one eye. It’s only been four hours since he pulled himself out of a research rabbit hole and forced himself to go to bed. He needs another three hours of sleep at a bare minimum before he can be expected to deal with mutilated coyote corpses. Or Derek Hale.

_Pls_, Scott says. _It was liek 2 hrs ago coulf still b around somwhere!!!!_

Stiles sighs. It’s not like Scott’s wrong, and he’s awake now, anyway. He opens up his text thread with Derek. It’s mostly work questions and a curated selection of excellent wolf jokes.

_Scott says they found another coyote this morning. U down for monster hunt?_ Stiles adds, then deletes, then adds a jack o’lantern emoji and hits send before he can take it back.

_Sure._ Derek responds immediately.

_Sounds good. Meet you in 1 hour? _

_Yes._

_Great, see you then. _

Stiles wastes fifteen minutes playing Bejewelled and waiting for Derek to respond, until he realizes he’s not going to. And what would he say, anyway? “Okay”? “Want me to suck your brain out through your dick again”? Stiles is probably remembering wrong. It can’t have been that fucking good. He flings his phone down on the comforter and sighs. He really needs to get a damn grip.

\--

The morning is foggy and cold. Stiles is a disaster trying to get out the door, dragging his feet getting out of bed, taking too long in the shower, unable to decide what to wear. He breaks the coffeemaker and has to stop at a chain on the way over, setting him back another ten minutes.

Derek’s already waiting for him, this time by the creek trailhead, when he flies up in the Jeep, sending gravel skittering. He’s frowning, standing with his hands in the pockets of that goddamn leather jacket. Stiles sighs quietly and braces himself before he opens the door and swings down from the Jeep.

“Hey, big guy,” he calls out as he walks over.

“Hi,” Derek says. He watches Stiles approach with his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket and Stiles tries to act normal. Not like they were half-naked on the floor of his apartment a week and a half ago. Not like he’s been avoiding and looking forward to this moment ever since then.

“So, uh.” Stiles clears his throat and laughs a little, too nervous to hold it in. “How should we do this?”

Derek shrugs. “Where did Scott say they found the body?”

“Down in the ravine, I think.” Stiles tries not to, but he catches himself shifting from foot to foot in the anxious, awkward way he used to do as a kid. This is fine. They’re pretending nothing happened. Just two bros, who’ve never touched each other’s dicks, headed into the woods.

“Then we’ll start there.” Derek says, but he doesn’t move away.

“Hey, uh,” Stiles clears his throat. “We’re cool, right? You and me?”

“No, Stiles,” Derek says, deadpan. “I’m cool. You’re… whatever that is.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Stiles says. “Asshole.” But he’s grinning, and feels lighter than he has in days when they both start down the path to the ravine together. 

\--

There’s nothing in or around the creek bed, or on the cliffs above it, or nearby for at least a quarter mile in any direction. Two more hours wandering around in the cold morning and they find nothing. As they’re turning to head back to the trail, Derek reaches out and grabs Stiles’s arm, urging him to a halt.

“What’s up? Everything okay?” Stiles asks, but he knows that’s not it. Derek’s looking at his eyes, his mouth, his expression soft and intense. His grip on Stile’s arm is a gentle but firm touch, fingers lightly wrapped around his sleeve. Stiles could break away and just leave Derek there in the woods, if he wanted to. He really, really doesn’t.

“Is this okay?” Derek asks, his voice low and rough. Stiles nods helplessly, and then Derek’s right there — tightening his grip, pulling Stiles close, his hand coming up to cup Stiles’s cheek, fingers hooked under his jaw, urging him on. Stiles goes, falling into him willingly.

Their lips touch softly at first, a gentle lingering press soon abandoned in favor of more. Derek’s tongue dips into Stiles’s mouth, Stiles’s hands clutching at his back, pressing their bodies closer. Derek’s stubble scrapes against Stiles’s lips, and he feels like there’s not enough air in the world, nothing to keep him from quietly gasping into Derek’s mouth.

Stiles pulls back to catch his breath. Derek looks — he looks hungry, flushed and wanting. He moves suddenly, guides them both backward to crowd Stiles up against a tree, one arm slipped around Stiles’s waist, tugging him closer. Derek’s hand slides up the back of his neck into his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. Derek’s mouth is back on his, demanding and teasing in turn, and Stiles can’t keep himself quiet.

It’s so, so good — just as good as the other night, if not better, because this time Stiles is more focused. He’s not distracted, trying to figure out how they ended up making out in the middle of the woods. This time, he knows. It’s not a surprise, but it’s just as exhilarating, just as unbelievable and miraculous: running his hands over Derek’s shoulders under his jacket, slipping it off to feel the muscles in his arms. The heat of his skin warms Stiles’s palms, wards off the chill of the forest.

“Derek,” Stiles manages, “I want—” he slips his fingers into the waistband of Derek’s jeans and he nods against Stiles’s neck, catching his teeth on Stiles’s collarbone and burying his nose behind Stiles’s ear. Stiles fumbles with the button on Derek’s fly in the narrow space between them, fingers shaking a little as he desperately tries to get the zipper down. He suddenly, overwhelmingly wants his hands on Derek’s dick, wants to feel his muscles twitching under him, wants to hear him moaning, make him lose control.

Objectively, mutual handjobs in the woods isn’t the best idea he’s ever had but he’s hard pressed to think of a better one at the moment.

“There you are,” Stiles says, finally working his fingers into Derek’s briefs, brushing his fingers along Derek’s dick. He’s already close to hard when Stiles wraps his hand around him, squeezing gently. Derek exhales loudly, shifting his hips into Stiles’s hand.

“What about — let me touch you,” Derek says, and Stiles isn’t going to argue. He nods jerkily, leaning back to give Derek space to get his pants open, pull his dick out. 

“Here.” Derek spits into his own hand, filthy and wet. “Come here,” he says, like Stiles could stay away, but he’s the one who steps closer, pressing up against him, hot and hard; he’s the one who wraps a hand around both of them, pressing a thumb under the head of Stiles’s dick, making him gasp and twitch.

It doesn’t take long, after that — both of them moving slick against each other in Derek’s hand, Stiles’s hands diving down the back of Derek’s pants to grip his ass, Derek’s face buried in his neck, mouth open, inhaling into Stiles’s skin.

“I really want you to fuck me,” Derek murmurs quietly after, cheek pressed against Stiles’s damp forehead, and fuck. There’s no possibility that Stiles would ever turn him down.

“Yeah, okay, yes,” Stiles manages, grasping at Derek’s shoulders. “Let’s do that. Please.”

Derek laughs quietly against his temple, warm breath fanning through Stile’s hair. “Yes. Let’s go.”

They go back to the apartment and Derek slows him down, makes him take his time, and it feels like hours before he’s finally inside Derek, sweat-slick hands slipping from where he’s trying to hold on to Derek’s hips, teeth bruising Derek’s shoulder, if only for now. 

It’s — it’s good. It’s really fucking good.

That’s the first time. After, it happens again: on the way home from the woods, after running into each other at a coffee shop, and suddenly it’s a regular thing that they do together. Stiles loves pushing Derek down on his mattress, stripping him bare, working him open until they’re both panting. He loves the way Derek looks when Stiles presses into him: knees brushing against Stile’s ribs, mouth soft and open, eyes closed.

Every time, Stile decides not to say anything about Derek not being straight, because: rude, and he’s trying to be better about that, but also every time he means to bring it up he gets distracted by Derek — by his rare laughter, by an unexpectedly gentle smile, by a hand slipping up his thigh. At least one of his questions seems to have answered itself, and as time passes, he’s less certain he wants the answer to the others.

\--

When he goes home for dinner on the first Tuesday in November, the Sheriff has the good grace not to mention the bite marks on Stiles’s neck, but he’s pretty sure he’s living on borrowed time.

“So,” his dad finally says over dessert. It’s strawberry shortcake. “How’s the social life been since you’ve been back in town? Making new friends?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles replies, immediately and loudly. “Please, do not.”

“Do what?” His dad fixes him with an interrogatory stare. Stiles hates everything right now, with the exception of his very wise decision to not live at home. “I’m just trying to have a conversation with my son, here.”

“There isn’t any conversation to have,” Stiles says, scooping up a spoonful of whipped cream. “I’ve just been meeting up with people, hanging out, you know. Being social. That’s me. Old social Stiles.”

“Right. That’s you. And are you socializing with anyone in particular?” John raises an eyebrow and Stiles focuses every single one of his brain cells on not batting an eyelash.

“No one you know.”

“Hmmm.” John narrows his eyes. His dad may have years of experience in the interrogation room, but Stiles is quickly catching up, and he is determined to not fuck this up. “Any chance I’m going to meet this person?”

“Nice try,” Stiles says. “That’s a hard no.”

“Well, if you’re spending so much time together…”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles insists, and the lump that forms in his throat when he says it is both unwelcome and disappointingly unsurprising. “We’re not anything like that. There are no feelings. It’s just for fun.”

His dad gives him a hard look. “You’re pretty insistent there, Stiles.”

“Because it’s the truth.” But he’s suddenly, achingly aware that it’s not, not even remotely. He’s definitely, definitely falling in love with Derek. It’s an unmitigated disaster.

“Well, you’re an adult, son,” John sighs. “As long as you’re happy and being safe.”

“Dad!”

“Sorry, sorry.” John sits back in his chair. He gestures with his spoon. “I’m your dad. I have to say it.”

“Do you, though? Do you really?”

“I do, as a matter of fact.” His dad raises his eyebrows. “Stiles, all that said... sounds like it might be something a little more than just for fun.” His dad gives him one of his meaningful parental looks, but it’s not quite right, a little soft around the edges, tinged with a smile.

“Yeah, I mean.” Stiles bites his lip and pushes a chunk of strawberry around his plate. He wishes. “I guess so. Maybe.”

\--

“Shit, fuck,” Stiles mutters, rolling off of Derek. “That was, fuck.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and it almost sounds like he’s smiling. Stiles looks over at him, laid out on his bed, arms tucked behind his head, chest still flushed and heaving. His hair is a sweaty bird’s nest, eyes closed in contentment. He looks amazing, as always, and as calm as Stiles has ever seen him.

They lay beside each other in warm silence as they catch their breath. Derek opens his eyes, rolling up on one elbow to look over at Stiles. 

“I’m glad you went home with me that night,” he says quietly. “At the bar.”

This is an opening if Stiles is ever going to get one, and he has never once in his life left well enough alone, so he decides to go for it.

“Yeah, so, that was kind of a surprise,” Stiles says. He keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling. “A totally welcome one, don’t get me wrong. Obviously, we’re—” He flails his arms in some sort of gesture between them. “But yeah, I didn’t even know you were into....” He trails off. 

This is not exactly coming together how he had hoped it would, he thinks, finally glancing over at Derek. Derek’s brow is creased in confusion, and the softness around his mouth is gone, replaced by a tight frown. Stiles rolls over on his side to face him and licks his lips. His mouth still tastes like the sweat from Derek’s skin.

“What I don’t understand,” Stiles stops, tries again. “Why didn’t you just tell me before? I would have been cool with it.”

“What the hell, Stiles. You were sixteen. And then you were—“

“Um, excuse me,” Stiles says. “What do you mean, I was sixteen? Of course I was. That’s how time works, in case you weren’t clear on the concept. What does that have to do with — I already knew I was into dudes, it’s not like I would have been a dick about it or anything. Well, not any more than normal, anyway.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek groans. “You were sixteen, and I wasn’t going to — and then you were with Lydia and gone, and it wasn’t okay, so I didn’t.” Derek stops, shuts his mouth, just looks at Stiles with a tight, frustrated scowl.

“Wait, whoa, whoa there. Slow down,” Stiles holds his hands up. None of this is making any sense. Stiles is having an out-of-body experience, he’s pretty sure, or a heart attack, or something. “I’m mad because you didn’t think you could tell me you were into guys, and you’re saying. What you’re saying is not only were you into guys, you were into me? When I was, like, sixteen?” 

Stiles is absolutely aware that he probably looks ridiculous right now — his eyebrows are halfway up his forehead, his dick’s still hanging out and his jaw’s dropped open wide enough to catch flies, but he’s in shock. He’s not sure how else he’s supposed to feel and Derek Hale constantly throwing him for a loop is getting fucking irritating. Getting irritated is almost definitely not helping anything about this situation, though, so he swallows, tries to get himself under control.

Derek frowns, breathing in sharply. “You’re upset.”

“No, shut up, I’m trying to think.”

“What is there to think about?” Derek’s off the bed in half a heartbeat, reaching for his pants where they’re in a crumpled puddle on the floor.

“I mean — not like that. Derek—“ But it’s definitely too late. He can already tell the damage has been done. Derek’s buttoning his fly, shrugging on his sweater, shoving his bare feet into his shoes and it’s kind of amazing because this is literally the fastest Stiles has ever witnessed someone get dressed in his entire life, but it’s also awful, because Derek’s closing the door behind him and off like a shot before Stiles can even get his thoughts together to explain.

Well, fuck. That went well, Stiles thinks hysterically, flinging himself back onto the pillows and staring at the ceiling. His whole fucking apartment smells like sex and Derek, who just literally ran away from him rather to avoid talking about his feelings.

_SOS!!!!!!_ Stiles texts Scott.

\--

“Dude.” Scott looks up from his cherry limeade. “You really didn’t know?”

“Obviously! And you did?” Stiles almost knocks over his Dr. Pepper in his agitation.

“It’s not like he’s subtle, or anything. Or has ever been subtle, like... ever.”

“Yeah, well. I… was distracted?”

“Distracted by…?”

Stiles just looks at him. Scott sighs. “Okay, never mind. But distracted for, like, ten years?”

“I don’t know, man! I was a kid, and then there was Lydia, and Malia, and Lydia again, and then I moved away. If only I’d had someone around who could point it out to me — you know, someone who had my back, like maybe a best friend or something—“

“Don’t try to pin this on me!” Scott leans forward, frowning, and nearly sloshes limeade all over his chest. “This is not my fault.”

“Oh my god, Scott, don’t even start.”

Scott makes a helpless gesture, fry in hand. “In case you forgot, there was a lot going on at the time. It’s not like I wasn’t focused on other stuff when we hung out with Derek, and his ginormous crush on you wasn’t exactly at the top of my list. Besides,” Scott looks away and down, voice going soft. “It was kind of weird back then.”

“What,” Stiles says. “Honestly, what does that even mean.”

“He was twenty-three, and you were sixteen.”

“Dude, who cares? He was hot as fuck. That wouldn’t have stopped me,” Stiles scoffs.

“Yeah man, I know,” Scott rolls his eyes. “I was there. But that was kind of the problem. It definitely stopped Derek.”

“Oh.” Stiles’s indignant rage grinds to a screeching halt and so does his appetite. He blinks, setting down the rest of his burger. “Right. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Scott says.

Stiles scrubs a hand across his face and looks out the window. He feels exhausted, suddenly, overwhelmed. So, Derek had wanted him, once upon a time, and he’d missed his shot. No big deal. The timing was truly terrible and it never would have worked, never would have lasted between them. And now, Derek doesn't want him like that, and they can’t even try. Really, it’s no big surprise that Derek stopped being interested. Plus, Scott’s kind of right — as close as they all were, as desperate and strange as everything was at the time, it was a little weird that Derek was into him back then. Stiles is glad Derek never said anything. He didn’t have the best judgment at sixteen and definitely wouldn’t have had any in the face of possibly getting his hands on Derek Hale. Honestly, Stiles is grateful. Of course Derek wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t do anything. It was for the best.

They sit in silence for a long moment. “So,” Stiles clears his throat. “Now what do I do?”

“I don’t know, dude,” Scott sucks on the last of the cherry limeade and melted ice in his cup. Stiles wants to smack it out of his hands. “I honestly don’t know.”

\--

The thing in the woods continues to evade them, leaving odd signs of its existence: little piles of bloodied fox bones covered in feathers, strange, sprawling concentric rock formations carved out of cliffside scree and shredded boulders, huge messy nests on the low branches of oak trees, too big and uncanny for any bird in the Sierra foothills.

“It’s like the cryptid Blair Witch Project,” Stiles says, poking at one of the nests. He knows it doesn’t even make sense as he’s saying it, but the silence between the two of them is unbearable. Derek ignores him, jumping down from the tree and striding uphill to peer over the crest of the ridge.

“You know, the piles of rocks. Weird sticks in trees.” Stiles gestures back the way they came. He’d much rather carry a completely idiotic conversation with himself than stalk around the woods in awkward silence. “I guess the Blair Witch could have been a cryptid, they never really — hey! Wait!”

Derek disappears without responding, jumping down into the ravine. Stiles hustles up to the edge, nearly tripping over an exposed root, arms wheeling as he skids to a halt at the top of the ridge.

“Oh my — uh. Holy shit.” 

At Derek’s feet is a giant pile of scaly reptile skin, translucent and light brown and honestly revolting. Its shredded edges flutter in the breeze, stirring the bloodied downy feathers scattered around it.

“Are you sure it’s not a kanima?”

“Stiles,” Derek sighs. “It’s not a fucking kanima.”

Stiles looks down at the pile of skin. “I mean, it looks like it could be a kanima. From here, anyway.”

Derek just raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles sighs, “I’ll — I’ll keep looking, when we get back. Are you sure you don’t have any ideas? Feathers, reptile, weird stuff in the woods? Some kind of lizard bird?”

“No,” is all Derek says, pulling himself over the edge of the ridge. When he stands, he’s very — very close to Stiles. They’re not touching, but Stiles wouldn’t have to move much, wouldn’t even have to take a step, to lean his body into Derek’s. He doesn’t — since their conversation the other night, things have been weird — but he wants to. It’s a little cold this far into the forest, even with his flannel shirt, and Derek’s always so warm. He’s just wearing a t-shirt, and his arms—

Derek clears his throat, and Stiles realizes he’s been staring at Derek too long without saying anything, without moving. He swallows hard, eyes meeting Derek’s, gaze slipping down to linger on his mouth, and oh man, this is way worse. This is not good at all.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Derek says carefully, and he sounds so loud in the quiet of the forest and the silence between them but he doesn’t step away. Stiles catches himself holding his breath.

“Yeah, I mean — yeah,” he finishes lamely, but he doesn’t look away. He loses track of how long they stand there before Derek resolutely turns away, striding off through the trees.

They don’t find anything else, even though they’re out in the woods for another hour, working their way out from the central clearing in a growing spiral, walking in widening circles and avoiding each other’s eyes. Everything is fraught and quiet except for the crunching of their boots in the fallen leaves and underbrush.

\--

They end up fucking anyway, back at Stiles’s apartment, Derek under him on sheets that have spent all afternoon warming in the sun, the late evening shadows spilling through the windows and sharpening the lines of Derek’s features: where Stiles bites at his jaw, where he presses his nose alongside Derek’s as they gasp into each other’s mouths. It’s just as amazing as every time before — maybe a little more than that, harder and louder in counterpoint to the tension of the earlier silence between them, demolishing it completely. 

The sound of them, together — Stiles is kind of crazy about it. He bites his lip to stay quiet enough to hear Derek when he finally lets go, when he’s completely gone on the way their bodies move together. Holds his breath to hear Derek’s heavy breathing, gasps and breathy growls in the back of his throat, little desperate “yeah”s slipping from his lips when he gets closer, Stiles’s name in his mouth when he comes.

\--

“I’m sorry I was weird about it,” Stiles says. Derek tenses up a little. He can feel it, from the way Derek’s resting his head on Stiles’s shoulder, sweaty skin against skin. “I get it, why you didn’t say anything — honestly, you were right not to. I was only sixteen and anyway, I — it’s in the past now. It’s, you know, that’s what it was and I know you don’t, anymore. And the only way to go is — forward,” Stiles trails off. That was — he really should have thought this through before he opened his damn fool mouth.

“Stiles, what.” Derek is full-on staring at him close range, and despite Stiles’s best efforts, neither of them are any more comfortable than when this conversation started.

“Look, I know you were — whatever, in the past, and now you don’t have feelings for me anymore and I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable.” Stiles sighs and rubs at his face. “What we’re doing now, hooking up or whatever, is — great, and how you — I want you to know that what happened when I was sixteen, how you felt, it doesn’t change that.”

“No,” Derek says, quiet and forceful. “No, you dumbass. Not when you were sixteen. Since you were sixteen.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to process what Derek’s saying, because he can’t possibly mean— “Oh. That’s, wow.”

“Yeah, Stiles. Wow.” Derek shakes his head and looks away. “I’d better get going.”

“No, wait, you don’t have to... Please, don’t—”

But just like last time, Derek’s already gone, leaving his shirt behind in his haste to get the fuck out of there. 

Stiles never fucking learns.

\--

He calls Scott to meet up at the diner again, because he can’t not. Scott, his best bro eternal, slides into the booth at 1 a.m., hair smashed flat against the left side of his head, scrubbing his eyes with the arm of his sweatshirt while they sip ice water and wait for their pancakes.

“So,” Stiles says. “It turns out that thing with Derek being into me isn’t so past tense. More like past and present… tense.”

“Yeah, dude,” Scott says. “I told you.”

“Scott McCall,” Stiles points a stern finger at the accused. “You absolutely did not tell me. You said, and I quote, that….” He pauses, at a loss, and drags his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Maybe you did tell me. This is one gigantic clusterfuck of a miscommunication, dude. I can’t… for ten years, though? Derek’s really been. He’s been into me for an entire decade? What? Why? How?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re kind of…” Scott sighs and shifts a little in his seat. “You’re kind of it for him.”

“What? What does that even mean?”

“It’s kind of,” Scott’s blushing, and now Stiles is really worried. “It’s kind of a wolf thing? Like sometimes, there’s someone, and you just… know. They smell amazing, and their heartbeat sounds like — and you want to spend all your time with them. It feels like you belong to them. And like if you’re the luckiest person alive, they’ll belong to you, too.” Scott says. He smiles then, lopsided and a little sad. “I felt that way about Allison. Like we were soulmates.”

“I had no idea it was — that intense,” Stiles says, struggling for a response. “And you really think that Derek — is like that? About me?”

Scott shrugs. “I know he is.”

“Oh fuck,” Stiles groans, dropping his forehead to the table. He’s such an idiot.

“I know, dude, but it’s not that bad. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.” It’s okay, because apparently Scott is an idiot, too.

“It’s not like that.” Stiles twists an abandoned straw wrapper in his fingers. It’s damp in the middle and disintegrates before he gets to the end. “I mean, I kind of thought… I thought that I was imagining things. Because they were what I wanted. Like, I wanted Derek to want me so bad I read more into things than I should have.”

“Oh shit,” Scott says.

“Dude,” Stiles mocks, “it’s not like I was subtle or anything. Ever.”

“Shut up,” Scott scowls. “So, you’re super into him, too?”

“Yeah. I definitely am.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Scott asks, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? He’s gotten himself into this mess and now he’s got to get himself out. Derek probably wants nothing to do with him, at this point. When Stiles thinks about it, he sees a highlight reel from the past three months: every time he rejected Derek, or pushed him away, or hid how he felt so he wouldn’t get hurt. Well, joke’s on him, he guesses, because it’s pretty clear he’s completely fucked this up.

“I have no fucking clue, buddy.” Stiles leans back, tucking his hands behind his head, staring up into the burnt-out fluorescents and dirty acoustic tile. “ But I’ll figure something out.”

\--

Stiles gets desperate: he calls Lydia.

“Hi,” he says when she picks up. “I need your help.”

Lydia sighs. “What is it this time? I’m busy.”

“Okay, I’ll make it quick. There’s something weird happening in the woods and—”

“Quicker than that,” Lydia interrupts. She’s tapping her nails on the desk, and he knows he’s running out of time before she loses patience and hangs up on him.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles sighs. “Fine. Do you know any giant lizard birds that would hang out in the woods? This one is killing small predators and shedding skin and feathers everywhere. I looked in your files and my bestiary. Haven’t found anything yet.”

“Hmm,” Lydia pauses. “You mean, other than a kanima?”

“Yes. It’s not a kanima.”

He can hear Lydia pop her lips over the phone. “Are you sure? Because it sounds like it could be a kanima.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not a kanima,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek’s totally sure it’s not.”

“Well, if Derek’s sure.”

“Lyds, he knows what he’s talking about,” he says.

“Mmmhmm,” she agrees. “I’m sure he does. I’m going to send you a couple of articles that might be useful. I’m guessing you’ve already checked the network and reached out to Angie and James.”

“You know me so well,” Stiles says dryly. “Yes, I emailed them last week. They don’t have anything.” He clicks over to his inbox. “Your articles came through — Lyds, I already told you, it’s not a kanima. The thing’s demolishing the cliffs. It doesn’t act like a kanima.”

“You can’t completely rule it out yet,” she points out.

“I—” Stiles sighs. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” The phone line lapses into silence, only the faint fuzz of the connection in his ear.

“How is it, being back?” 

“A little weird. Time didn’t stop when we left, you know?” He laughs a little. “Scott’s good, as always. He seems really happy with Molly. My dad’s happy I’m back.”

“And Derek?”

“He’s…” Stiles scrubs his hand across his eyes. Lydia always fucking knows. “We’re. We kind of, we’re sleeping together.”

Lydia laughs, which — honestly, it’s a small mercy, since he had no clue what he was going to say next. “Well, that was fast.”

“It just ha— wait. What,” Stiles says, and his voice definitely doesn’t crack a little. “What do you mean, that was fast? How did you… Of course. You knew.”

“Of course I knew. I know everything,” Lydia scoffs. “Also, you’re completely obvious. You aren’t exactly subtle.”

“That’s what I—”

“And neither is Derek,” Lydia continues, ignoring him. “Though it’s not like he could be, even if he tried. Werewolf.”

“How do you— Lydia, what are you talking about? How do you know all this? Why in holy hell didn’t you tell me?” He’s getting frustrated — this is just so typically Lydia: to have all the answers, and laugh at him while he’s still struggling five steps behind.

“It’s not that hard, Stiles,” she sighs, irritated. “Just go after what you want.”

“I thought you were what I wanted,” He shoots back. “And look how that turned out.”

“There might be some emotional displacement happening here,” Lydia says calmly, unamused. He can hear her raised eyebrows through the phone.

“I can hear your eyebrows through the phone,” he says. “I’ve screwed everything up, and I need help. This? This is not very helpful.”

“Well, in that case…”

“No, wait, wait — I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Lyds. I’m just—” Stiles groans. “Please, just. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Stiles, you know I can’t answer that. You have to figure this one out for yourself. I don’t do that for you anymore, remember?” She’s quiet for a minute, and they both listen to the static on the long distance line. She laughs gently. “Besides, I don’t think you really need my help. I think you already know.”

“I know nothing,” he insists.

“Talk to him,” she says.

“But Lydia,” he starts, but she’s already hung up.

\--

_Code Red_, Liam sends to the pack group text on Thursday. _Lizard bird out by the old highway_.

Stiles has a very, very bad feeling about how this is going to go for him, but he packs up and drives out to where Scott sends him anyway. The bad feeling is confirmed when he pulls up at the far end of the deserted swimming hole parking lot and there’s Derek, lurking by a tumbled cluster of giant boulders at the trailhead.

Stiles takes a quiet moment to covertly bang his head against the steering wheel. This is fine. It’s fine. He sighs and opens the door, tumbling out of the Jeep and pocketing his keys.

“Hey,” Stiles offers lamely as he approaches. Derek just looks at him, expressionless. Excellent. Great opener, Stilinksi.

“You know, I’m starting to think there isn’t a lizard bird,” Stiles says, because he only knows how to do one thing, and that’s make an awkward situation a thousand times worse. “I don’t know, maybe you just made it all up to get in my pants. Ha ha.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and he manages to look both astonished and furious at once. “Shut up.”

And that’s when the lizard bird bursts out of the trees across the parking lot, barreling straight toward them.

\--

“I told you it wasn’t a kanima,” Derek hisses. They’ve taken refuge in a narrow crevice between boulders, crammed together arm to arm in a way that might be nice if there wasn’t a lizard bird trying to kill them and the sharp corner of a rock shoved into Stiles’s shoulder blade. Plus, Derek seems kind of pissed about the whole situation.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says. “Congratulations, big guy! You were right. But don’t you wish you weren’t?”

The lizard bird is the size of a fucking horse, with two sets of wings, two rows of teeth, feathers, and scales. It’s shrieking at them and scraping the ground and rocks with its giant talons and the sound is honestly the worst racket Stiles has ever heard, and that’s really saying something. He didn’t think he’d ever wish for a kanima, but there’s a first time for everything. The lizard bird looks like a dinosaur and is nineteen hands tall and smells like it’s been rolling around in rotting carrion for weeks. Stiles hates it.

“So, since it’s not a kanima,” Stiles says, nobly ignoring Derek’s incredibly dramatic and entirely unwarranted eyeroll, “I’m thinking Trogdor out there looks like a mountain devil. In my professional opinion, you know.“

“A mountain devil,” Derek repeats slowly. “Great. How do we kill it?”

“Good question.” This time, Stiles ignores Derek’s glare to peer between the rocks. The lizard bird shrieks again, scrabbling at the break in the rocks, sending bits of shale flying. Tiny, oily feathers are floating everywhere — is it moulting? “Also, it really hates predators. And humans. So, werewolves…”

“So, it hates me, we’re trapped, and we have no way to fight it.”

Stiles shrugs as much as he can, and immediately regrets it. “Pretty much, yeah. But on the plus side, I texted Scott and they’re on their way.”

“And until then…?” Derek cocks an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Until then, big guy, I try to look up how to kill this thing on my phone, and hope we can make it happen before it kills us.” Stiles swipes over to the bestiary app and starts typing. 

“Stop calling me that,” Derek says.

“Sure thing, big guy. It looks like beheading, fire, or iron sword through the heart are our only options here.” 

“Perfect,” Derek growls. “This is just — perfect.”

Another shower of pebbles scatters down on their heads and Stiles flinches. This is a deeply unpleasant experience. “As it turns out, I’ve got an iron sword and a flamethrower in the Jeep,” he offers. Derek gives him a scathing look. “What? I did my research. I wanted to be prepared.”

“And just how prepared do you feel right now?” The Jeep’s maybe two hundred yards away. Scott and the rest of the pack are scattered throughout the Preserve, and may or may not have cell service this deep into the woods. Even if they get to the right spot, there’s no guarantee the brittle boulders will hold against the mountain devil’s scrabbling claws — already, the edges of their narrow hideout have been chipped away. A chunk of rock has slipped down the back of Stiles’s collar. Staying put isn’t an option, and Stiles thinks he has a way out.

“On a scale of one to ten? It’s been better,” Stiles says. “But it’s been worse. I’ve got an idea. I think if we distract it, I can make it to the Jeep.”

“What? No, Stiles. If anyone’s going to try to run to the Jeep it’s going to be me.”

“Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan to get past me to do that?” Stiles knows he’s right — Derek’s crammed into the crevice behind him. He can’t move until Stiles does.

“You’re human,” Derek says, insistent. He’s getting pissed off, Stiles can tell, but that’s just too fucking bad. Stiles ignores him and starts trying to shimmy down to reach his hiking boot. “That thing out there? It could kill you. It’s already killed three cougars.”

“You’re right, but I’m pretty sure it could kill you, too, buddy. Werewolf or no.” Stiles’s fingers finally find purchase and he pulls the improvised explosive from where it’s tucked in the side of his hiking boot.

“What the hell is that?” Derek glances back and forth between the explosive and Stiles.

“An IED loaded up with irritants,” Stiles explains. “Loud noise, bright flare, and a special cocktail of shit that’s gonna hurt like fuck.” He takes a deep breath. “Here’s my plan: I light it, toss it, and run like hell.”

“No. You don’t have to do this. We can wait for Scott and the others.” Derek looks worried, pinched, even in shadow.

“We don’t know how far away they are, or who will get here first, or when they’ll be here,” Stiles argues. “They won’t have the weapons they need either. I have the keys to the Jeep. and who knows how long it’ll take to smash these boulders to smithereens.” He doesn’t want to stick around to find out. Besides, he can do this. He’s done worse, on longer odds.

“I know you can do this,” Derek says, starting to sound a little gruff. “But you shouldn’t. It’s too dangerous. Let me—”

“Hey, can you help me with this?” Stiles interrupts him. There’s a lighter jammed in his right jeans pocket and he can’t quite wiggle it free. Derek stares at him for a long moment before shaking his head and slipping his fingers into the pocket. He has to lean over to reach the lighter, sunk to the bottom of Stile’s pocket and briefly rests his forehead on Stile’s shoulder, inhaling quietly. Holding up the lighter, he pulls back and meets Stiles’s gaze.

“Stiles, please—” Derek starts, but Stiles raises a gentle hand to his lips, startling him into silence. Derek stares at him wide-eyed, angry and afraid.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises. “I know how to do this. It’s my job.” He lights the fuse, flings the explosive out of the crack and into the mountain devil’s gaping maw, and launches himself out from between the boulders. The monster is screaming, flailing blindly, claws scrabbling at its own face. Stiles doesn’t stop to watch.

It takes less time than he’d hoped for the mountain devil to recover and take off after him, but at least he’s already made it to the Jeep. After a brief lost second of fumbling with his keys, he has the car unlocked. Stiles reaches into the bundle of moving blankets under the backseat for the sword and yanks it free.

But, he realizes with a shock of panic, that’s long enough for the mountain devil to catch up with him. Derek’s squeezing out from between the boulders behind it — could the guy just follow instructions for once in his life, fucking hell — and Stiles barely has time to turn around before the monster’s on him, waving its strange taloned dinosaur arms and flailing its giant tail to knock the sword right out of his hands.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles swears. His arms feel like they’re still vibrating from the impact, but the mountain devil’s already turning on him, eyes rolling in their sockets, a disgusting string of spittle dripping from its razor teeth. Things are not going according to plan.

“Stiles,” Derek roars, and takes off toward the parking lot, shifting mid-stride.

“Derek, Derek — NO,” Stiles yells, but it’s too late: Derek’s in full shift, leaping straight for the mountain devil’s long throat, teeth bared, and the mountain devil’s already turning to knock him out of the air mid-leap. Derek goes flying, skidding across the rocky ground and smashing to a headfirst stop at the base of a gnarled old oak. He doesn’t get up. The mountain devil screeches and goes to follow him, wings flapping and jaws snapping, and Stiles’s heart stops.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, struggling with the moving blanket, trying to unroll it from where it’s wrapped around — he yanks it free, and a military grade flamethrower clatters out into his backseat.

“HEY,” he screams at the top of his lungs, hefting the tank onto his back and taking off for the mountain devil at top speed. The monster’s still headed toward Derek, and he can’t — he won’t let this fucker rip him apart. “Leave him the fuck alone.”

The thing pauses, barely turning to look at him before advancing on Derek, but it’s enough. Stiles lifts the nozzle, aims, and pulls the trigger. A thick, crackling rope of fire roars forth from the gun and the mountain devil shrieks, an unholy rending noise that echoes against the rocks until it sounds like it’s coming from all around them. 

The flame sears the mountain devil’s flank, incinerating its feathers and bubbling its scales. It stumbles, screeching for the last time, and lurches towards Stiles. He plants his feet further apart and doesn’t let up on the trigger. Still struggling to reach him, the beast collapses, with a final gurgling cry.

It takes longer than he had hoped that it would — longer than he cares to think about, standing there and spraying the mountain devil’s corpse with fuel and flame, before he’s certain that the thing is dead. Derek’s human again, standing there watching, when he finally lets up on the trigger and lowers the gun. The clearing around them is filled with thick, noxious smoke, quickly dissipating in the wind sweeping down the hillsides.

“Stiles,” Derek says, striding towards him. “Stiles are you — tell me you’re okay. Please, tell me — did it hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine,” Stiles laughs humorlessly. “You, though — it sent you all the way across the clearing into that giant tree trunk. How are you not — how are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek shakes his head. His eyes are still scanning over Stiles, searching for any sign of injury. “Werewolf, remember.”

“Yeah, but — that thing,” Stiles gestures to the burnt carcass in front of them. “That could have killed you.” He’s shaking a little, he realizes, and clenches his fists to try to still his hands. It only kind of works.

“It didn’t, Stiles. I’m fine.” Derek says, quieting. He takes Stiles’s hands in his own. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Right.” He takes a deep breath and lets it go in a shuddering exhale. “Okay — let’s. I have to put this away. And text Scott. And you — you should put some clothes on.”

Derek nods, and drops Stiles’s hands. “Right.”

\--

_Cx red alert_, Stiles types into the group text. _We got it. No injuries_. He snaps a picture of the charred skeleton and sends that, too.

_Awesome!!!_ Mason texts back, followed by a series of clapping hands and flexing arms, then: _oh, GROSS_.

Stiles tosses his phone in the open driver’s side window. It keeps buzzing, but he ignores it in favor of watching Derek stride toward him from across the parking lot. He’s back in his leather jacket, hair ruffled by the wind, a deep frown furrowing his brow. Stiles thinks about how he came running at the mountain devil, fearless. How his legs felt, firm and strong, tangled with Stiles’s in his bed. How he’d smiled at Stiles that night at the bar, laughing, looking at him through his eyelashes. It’s time to stop fucking this up, he thinks as Derek approaches the Jeep.

“So, about the other night,” Stiles says, because he’s learned nothing.

“Stiles, I don’t want to talk about this,” Derek interrupts. He doesn’t sound pissed off anymore, just tired.

“Yeah, I know. I’d gathered that from how you’ve avoided talking about it for ten years and literally ran away from me right after we had sex the first time and then twice more when I brought it up.” Stiles shrugs, a little nervous. There’s nothing to say Derek won’t run away from this again. “But at this point, I think we kind of have to.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a minute, glaring up at the mountains. The wind’s picked up again, setting the pines shivering against each other and loosing the last of the deciduous oak leaves, sending them fluttering over the parking lot. One lands on Derek’s shoulder.

“So, that night at the bar…?” Stiles prompts him.

“That night,” Derek trails off with a sigh. “It was good. More than that. It felt… right. Being with you confirmed all of the wolf’s instincts. It felt like it was something we were supposed to do, like we were making some kind of connection. It felt like you were mine,” he says, very quietly.

Stiles tries to swallow and can’t; his throat is tight and hot and he has to start over twice before he can get the words out, trying his best to sound casual, but he’s too obvious. “So. You thought we were consummating our eternal love and you didn’t say anything because…?”

“No, it wasn’t...” Derek frowns. Stiles holds his breath. “I thought you might already know.”

“You thought I might already know,” Stiles repeats flatly, and when Derek nods, his heart skips a beat.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” Derek offers.

Stiles sighs, exhausted, and leans back against the trunk of a giant oak. He closes his eyes for a long moment. “That’s what Scott said.”

“I know.” Derek steps just slightly closer to Stiles, but doesn’t reach for him. This close, Stiles can see how much effort Derek is putting in to holding still — the light tension he’s carrying in his shoulders, the slightly hard set to his jaw and the way his fingers are flexing against his thighs. He realizes then that Derek’s nervous — uncertain, afraid, but turned toward Stiles, looking at him with something very much like hope.

Maybe, Stiles thinks, a little light-headed, he knew Derek better than he’d thought. Maybe knowing Derek wasn’t the problem. Stiles has always assumed it was just him and his imagination, but this—

“Ok,” Stiles says, looking up at Derek. “Let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

“Consummate our eternal love, or whatever.”

“You can’t just say that.” And oh, great, Derek sounds pissed again, with an edge, like maybe — he’s flushed a little, eyes closed, and sounds almost sad, like maybe it wasn’t funny. Stiles is flippant and kind of an asshole because that’s what he does and that’s the way he’s always been, but this is how Derek’s always been, too: a little too serious, except when he’s not, and the kind of person who dives straight in, head first. There’s no stopping to check the depth of the water, to look for danger, as if being stubborn and certain will be enough to keep him alive despite all evidence to the contrary. As if, this time, things will be different.

It’s an odd kind of hope: Derek Hale, hopeless romantic and eternally tenacious optimist. It’s one of his most infuriating traits. Stiles kind of likes that about him, now.

“It’s like that, huh?” He almost whispers it: soft, gentle, safe. Derek nods, swallows, doesn’t open his eyes. His eyelashes are — well, fuck.

“Okay.” Stiles nods and steps in close to Derek. “Okay. It’s okay.” He slowly reaches for Derek, brushing his palm against his cheek, curling his fingers around Derek’s jaw.

Derek’s eyes are wide like he’s maybe a little scared, or hopeful, or both; like he’s barely breathing, just watching Stiles move closer.

“C’mere,” Stiles murmurs, inches away, and kisses him.

It’s not like any of the kisses they’ve shared before. Their lips are barely touching, moving soft and slow, the lightest pressure. Stiles doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Derek moves closer, brings their bodies together, sweeps his tongue lightly against Stiles’s lower lip, surprising him into a sharp inhale, lungs full of the smell of Derek and his leather jacket, his shampoo, and the forest around them: dry and sun-warmed oak and eucalyptus and laurel. 

Stiles pulls back on a soft exhale but stays close, his forehead barely touching Derek’s, their noses just brushing.

“I can’t believe that you thought I didn’t, that I wouldn’t…” Stiles shakes his head, trailing off. 

And maybe Stiles doesn’t know anything, and he’s just dumb and falls head over heels a little too easily and is loyal to a fault. But it does feel a little too much like they’re consummating their eternal love. And maybe he’s totally fucking into it in a really intense way, and he can’t exactly remember why this is a bad idea. Is it, though? Was it ever a bad idea? Maybe a long time ago, but not anymore. Right now, it’s a good idea. The best, even.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Let’s, yes. Okay.” And this time Stiles thinks he’s finally got it figured out: Derek's happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment and let me know if you enjoyed it - this is the first thing I've written in like a decade and I'm a little nervous about it.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://whateverrrrwhatever.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whateverrrrisay).
> 
> Bonus points if you spotted the Weakerthans reference.


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